


What Are We?

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Colonel Moran ponders the nature of his relationship with Professor Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Are We?

   “Professor?” Moran says through the haze of cigarette smoke. He’s been sitting on the sofa beside Moriarty for over an hour, smoking steadily but completely silent. Moriarty though has been waiting for him to say something since he realised that Moran’s glass of whisky has remained untouched all this time.

   “Yes Moran?” he says, setting down his book.

   “What are we?”

   Moriarty raises an eyebrow, swiftly trying to pick apart all the layers contained within the apparently innocuous question. “Human beings?” he suggests, not thoroughly seriously, but he hopes Moran isn’t going to be trying to hold some deep and meaningful conversation about emotions and other such pesky things.

   “No, what are  _we_.” Moran gestures between them. “I mean, you’re my employer and I am your employee but… if you don’t mind me saying so, most employers do not kiss or sleep with or bugger their employees.”

   “If you have a problem with our arrangement, we can refrain from engaging in those activities.”

   “No sir, it’s not that. I like those things. I just… wonder what we are now.”

   “Friends?” Moriarty says.

   Moran lifts the glass to his mouth but puts it down again before it touches his lips. “Well, I don’t know that we are, really. Neither of us really  _does_  friendship, do we?”

   “Lovers?”

   “Don’t like that word. Makes me think of poncy poetry and bleedin’ rose petals strewn everywhere, and you’d probably expect me to woo you then.”

   “I feel that we may have gone well beyond the ‘wooing’ stage,” Moriarty comments dryly. “Besides, Sebastian; neither of us is exactly some blushing virginal sweetheart.”

   “Yeah, I suppose not.” Moran chuckles.

   “Companions, perhaps?”

   “I suppose that’ll do.” Moran finally takes a sip of his drink. Moriarty mirrors the action with his own drink. “I mean it’s not like we can marry or anything, is it?” the colonel says after swallowing thoughtfully.

   Moriarty nearly chokes on his brandy. “Do you, er…” He clears his throat. “Would you  _want_  us to marry, if we could?”

   Moran shrugs. “S’pose you’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a wife. Well… husband?”

   “So you would like to make an honest man out of me, if you could?”

   “Well, wouldn’t you like a fancy wedding? You’d look divine in a frock, Professor.” Moran grins and Moriarty cannot help but smile too.

   “I’m afraid that if either of us was to put on a bridal gown then you, my dear Moran, would be the one doing so.” He takes up his book again and removes the ribbon marking his place.

   Moran drains the rest of his whisky. “So be it.” He sets down the glass now and then yawns, a tad too theatrically, stretching out his arms. In doing so his hand brushes against Moriarty’s shoulder.

   “Moran, you are not at all subtle,” Moriarty remarks without looking up.

   “Hmm.” Moran thinks about this briefly. “Well, in that case then…” Within a matter of seconds he has abruptly slipped his left hand around the back of the professor’s neck, plucked the book from his grasp and placed it aside (he’d have gone for tossing it aside but the professor might be tempted to kill him if he damaged it) then put his right hand about Moriarty’s neck also whilst moving over to straddle his lap. Now, before Moriarty can protest this, he kisses him, and he carries on kissing him until the professor indicates by the slight twist of his head that they should stop. Even so, Moran remains there, hands resting either side of Moriarty’s neck and with his head bowed so that their foreheads almost touch.

   “You are many things to me,” Moriarty tells him, his own hands resting against the colonel’s hips now.

   “Hm? Like what?”

   “You are my gunman. My right hand. You are my tiger and my loyal pet.” He places another kiss on Moran’s somewhat reddened lips. “You are the second most dangerous man in London, when I – of course – am the first.” Another kiss. “You are my Sebastian; my Moran, but above all…” He pauses.

   “Sir?”

   “You are simply  _mine_.”

     Moran pulls back slightly to ponder this momentarily, before he breaks into another grin. “Well,” he says, leaning in to claim another kiss, “I reckon I can live with that.”

 


End file.
